


Wearing down the treads

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-28
Updated: 2008-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Shit,” Travis says. “You’re finally making a move.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wearing down the treads

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently this is what happens when I try to beat writer's block. Thanks to [](http://adellyna.livejournal.com/profile)[**adellyna**](http://adellyna.livejournal.com/), [](http://maleyka.livejournal.com/profile)[**maleyka**](http://maleyka.livejournal.com/), [](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/profile)[**disarm_d**](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/), and [](http://tapfan06.livejournal.com/profile)[**tapfan06**](http://tapfan06.livejournal.com/) for assuring me it was post-worthy.

“Hey,” Gabe says into the phone. “I’m calling for Panic! at the Disco’s people, I want to arrange something.”

“Gabe,” Spencer says. He manages to make it sound longsuffering, but he’s really smiling, Gabe can tell. “That joke got old about two years ago.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Gabe says. “That joke will _never_ get old, Spence Wentz. You’ll always be Panic’s people to me.”

“Did you…” Spencer begins, followed by a pregnant pause. “ _What?_ ”

“What?” Gabe echoes. Then, “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that yet. You didn’t know Pete’s claimed you for his own?”

“This had better be another joke,” Spencer warns. It sounds fairly ominous, but Gabe knows Spencer. Under that bitchy, brutally honest exterior is a heart made of marshmallow.

“No joke,” Gabe replies cheerfully. “It’s on his myspace or some shit, everyone’s seen it. Seriously, you didn’t know?”

“Fucking Pete,” Spencer grumbles. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Sure,” Gabe agrees, and calls Ryan Ross.

“Gabe,” Ryan says warily. It’s his default response to Gabe’s name flashing on his caller ID, apparently, because he says it like that every single time Gabe calls, and not just when Gabe has recently sent his best friend out on the Wentz warpath.

“Ryan Ross,” Gabe says. “My best friend.” Because seriously, Ryan drunk off his ass will never not be funny.

“That’s…” Ryan begins, and then seems to think better of saying _gotten old._ It hasn’t even been two months yet, and besides, that shit will never get old either. Not as long as Gabe’s around.

“What do you want?” Ryan asks instead.

“I want to talk to Brendon,” Gabe informs him. “Is he around?”

There’s a pause, and then Ryan says, “Yeah.” Which Gabe had strongly suspected, because the Panic kids all live in each other’s back pockets whether they’re on tour or not. They probably get separation anxiety.

“Why didn’t you just call him?” Ryan asks, still slowly, as if he’s afraid Gabe won’t be able to understand him.

“Because this way I get to talk to you,” Gabe says, leaning back and grinning at the ceiling. “Ryan Ross. My _best friend._ ”

There’s another pause, some fumbling, and then someone else says, “Hello?”

“Johnny Walker,” Gabe exclaims. “I was expecting the other short kid on the block. But this is cool, now I get all four of you.”

“They made me the official inter-band liason for everyone except Pete,” Jon explains. “Ryan won’t give Pete up, but everyone else is my responsibility. Brendon’s going to make an official badge and everything.”

“Your band is fucking weird, dude,” Gabe tells him honestly.

“I know,” Jon says, but he sounds happy about it, which is cool. “You were calling for Brendon?”

“Yeah, is he there? Put him on,” Gabe says, remembering his original purpose. “He and I have things to discuss.”

There’s another long-distance telephone fumbling noise, and then Brendon’s always-surprisingly-low voice says, “Gaaaaabe.”

“I do not snore, Urie,” Gabe informs him. “I’m filing a lawsuit for slander.”

Brendon laughs, snorting and infectious. “What took you so long?” he accuses.

“Watching you guys do interviews is like slowly pushing a rusty fork into the back of my hand,” Gabe explains. “And I say that with love.”

“Fuck off,” Brendon says, laughing again. “I was right about Beckett, though. He’s a sexy, sexy man.”

Gabe says, “Can’t argue with you there.”

  


*

  
Gabe is planning on making a grand entrance, but when he hears what sounds like Chislett reciting love poetry, he has to hang back for minute.

“Violets aren’t blue,” William explains patiently, as if they’ve been over this before. “They’re violet.”

“Violet blue,” Chislett insists. “Like, it’s a colour.”

“Violet isn’t blue, it’s purple,” William says, and Gabe can imagine the look on his face now, the tolerance of those less-intelligent mixed with disbelief that anyone can actually be that stupid. “It’s a colour. Violet. Ultra-violet.”

“I’m just saying, that’s how the poem goes,” Chislett defends. “Roses are red, violets are blue.”

“But violets _aren’t_ blue,” William says again, the patience in his tone fraying. “And roses aren’t always red, you can’t just say ‘roses are red’, they’re not always red.”

“Flowers are for fucking pussies,” Gabe announces, because Chislett can’t win this one, no matter what he might think. The only way to come out on top of a disagreement with William is through circular arguments and numerous distraction techniques, and Chislett doesn’t have the skills yet.

William’s head snaps around at the sound of his voice, and the respective colours of roses and violets are forgotten instantly. “Where have you been?” he complains, but it’s with a smile, launching himself from the couch in Gabe’s direction.

Gabe wraps both arms around him, turning his head a little to inhale the faded scent of William’s shampoo. “Fucking Baltimore, right? We had to go feed the fish and shit. Did you guys eat?”

“Someone’s on a run,” William says, letting go with what feels like reluctance, fingers dragging over Gabe’s sleeve. “When are you sound checking?”

“Twenty minutes.” He should be out there now, actually, but he couldn’t go on without saying hey first. “You’d better watch your backs, we’re here to make this tour our bitch now.”

William sways in to hug him again, impulsive and tight. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, the words muffled against Gabe’s shoulder. “It’s never the same without you.”

“Like you could ever make it without us,” Gabe teases, fingers curling and digging into the tour-knot that always forms on the left side of William’s spine. William sighs and goes limp against him, muscle working reluctantly loose under Gabe’s fingertips.

“You’re going to eat with us?” William asks, pulling back when Gabe finishes his quick-fix massage and smoothes his shirt down.

“Save us the good stuff.” Gabe high-fives Chislett on the way past, yelling down the hallway to anyone who might be hanging around. “Cobra’s in the house!”

  


*

  
“Will!” Gabe yells as he busts into the Academy dressing room post-show. “Stop stealing all my fucking shit!”

William has a towel wrapped around his neck, clothes, hair, and skin all dripping sweat. He’s shoved the hood of his sweatshirt back, and his skeleton makeup is smearing in streaks down his throat. He looks disturbingly debauched and unrepentant. “I like them,” he says by way of explanation, and slides Gabe’s cheesy plastic sunglasses back onto his face.

Gabe steals them back and hooks them on the end of his nose, looking at William over the top of the frames. “I have an ensemble,” he explains, and then gets caught in the way William’s eyes are riveted on his mouth. He’s seen that look before. He’s seen that look on _William_ before.

“Are you high?” he asks, already half-grinning. “Dude, you’re totally gone. What have I told you about doing shit? Don’t do it without me.”

“I’m not,” William protests, but his eyes flick back and forth, shifty and guilty and altogether too telling. “Maybe one hit.”

“Maybe one,” Ryland puts in from the corner where he’s looking at Polaroids with Alex, “Maybe two. Maybe five.”

“Have all of you been partaking without including me? I’m wounded,” Gabe says, although he’s been out with fans and smoking the legal stuff with the crew for the past half hour, so it’s really no one’s fault but his own. “It’s Halloween, fuckers, who has the candy? Give it over.”

Ryland tosses him a bag and Gabe catches it, somewhat hampered by the fact that William is now leaning into him, nuzzling damply into his shoulder. Gabe wraps an arm around him and plays with the wet ends of his hair, trying to shake the bag open with his other hand.

“You’re not making this any easier,” he jokes, but he doesn’t move away, just wraps his arms around William so he can get both hands on the bag. William tilts his head onto Gabe’s shoulder. From what Gabe can see when he cranes his neck, William isn’t even watching him; he has his eyes closed, lashes thick against his cheekbone.

“You’re so fucked up,” he murmurs affectionately over top of William’s head, sticking the end of a joint – pre-rolled, this must be Nate’s stash – into his mouth and tossing the bag back to Ryland. “Cheers.”

“I’m not,” William says again, turning his face in towards Gabe’s chest before letting all the air out of his chest in a long, slow breath. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah,” Gabe agrees noncommittally, carefully fishing the lighter out of his pocket without displacing William. He lights up and says, “You’re going to be pissed if you pass out without getting a shower.” He’s seen William in the morning when he hadn’t had the chance to get a shower after a show. It isn’t a pretty sight.

Victoria walks in with wet hair and fresh makeup, wearing knee-high socks against the New England cold. “Poker game down the hall,” she says casually, pulling her bag out from under Siska’s legs. “Seven-card, if anyone wants to join in.”

“No, no,” Gabe says around the joint in his mouth, waving the lighter in his hand for emphasis. “Do not let that bitch cheat you at cards, she’s cunning like a fox.”

“Cunning like a _cobra,_ ” Ryland corrects, leaning forward to stand up from the low couch. “I’m going back to the bus. Play safe, don’t give Victoria any money or claim to your valuables.”

William makes a low humming noise against Gabe’s collarbone; he misses whatever Victoria says in reply, but her middle finger gives him the gist of it before she walks out again. Gabe takes another hit and lets it out slowly, turning his head to breathe the smoke over William’s hair. William turns his face up in response, eyes still closed but lips parted, just enough for Gabe to tuck the joint between his lips so he can inhale.

“I’m serious, don’t pass out on me,” Gabe warns, reclaiming the joint. “We’re probably taking off soon.”

“How many days?” William asks, fighting sticky lashes to open his eyes.

“Twenty-five,” Gabe answers automatically. He’s still counting up, fresh to the tour, but the Academy have already been on the road for long enough that he understands the weariness, even when he doesn’t share it. He’s been there before, he knows the feeling. “Don’t give me that shit, you love it.”

William smiles faintly, steals the joint from Gabe’s mouth with warm fingers against his lips and says, “Yeah, I do.”

“I’m gonna go feel up Sisky’s tits,” Gabe tells him. “Go get your fucking shower.”

  


*

  
“Nice interview,” Pete says by way of greeting.

“Wentz,” Gabe greets him cheerfully, phone pressed to his ear with one shoulder. “How’s life as a gay pretender?”

“I can’t believe you said that,” Pete says, and Gabe can hear the grin, stretched wide and toothy.

“They brought it up. Is this about the Patrick thing?” Gabe asks in his most serious tone. “Because I can’t help that he’s the father of my little lapine bunny babies, but you never struck me as the revenge fuck type.”

“You can’t have him,” Pete says automatically, in what Gabe knows is only half a joke. “He was mine first. Get your own Timbaland.”

“I won him over with my make-out skills,” Gabe says. “And you have no gay cred, Mr. Straight-below-the-waist, what the fuck?”

“Just because you run around assaulting everyone with your lips,” Pete says.

“Will and I used tongue,” Gabe retorts, just to set the record straight.

“And you haven’t made an honest man of him yet,” Pete says, sadly enough that Gabe laughs out loud.

“Dude,” Gabe says, rocking forward even though Pete can’t see him, because you can’t share gossip this good just lazing around on your back. “The Business dared him to blow me for a hundred dollars, and I think the pool is up to, like, six or seven by now. Everyone’s in on it, he’s not budging.”

“It’s because you haven’t taken him on a romantic hot air balloon ride yet,” Pete says. “I wouldn’t blow you either.”

“You’re afraid of cock,” Gabe accuses. “You phony gay cred-less cunt-loving imposter. It’s because you only have your own abnormal specimen for reference, and everyone in the world has seen that thing, no wonder you’ve been turned off men.”

“Lick, lick my balls,” Pete sings, badly and off-key.

“And play with my asshole,” Gabe sings back. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Give my love to Stumpy, you asshole.”

“Will do,” Pete says. “Hey, tell William that if he does it, I’ll double whatever the current pot is.”

“My dick thanks you for your contribution,” Gabe tells him. “Consider it done.”

  


*

  
“Gabe.”

It’s Alex’s voice, hushed against the silence of whatever-the-fuck time of the morning it is. Normally Gabe would pretend to still be asleep, but he can’t feel the sun on his eyelids yet, and Alex doesn’t usually wake him in the middle of the night.

“Mmph’sup?” he manages, bleary-eyed and squinting. He can see Alex’s shadowy silhouette, and the blue glow of a cell phone. It’s still quiet, so everyone else must be sleeping.

“The Armor trailer just came loose,” Alex says, barely audible over the rumble of the bus engine. “It’s completely wrecked. They almost hit the Academy bus, they’re on the side of the highway now. Adam sent me a picture.” He holds up the phone, and Gabe’s just-woken vision tries and fails to pick out the details of wreckage strewn across a dark road.

Gabe sits up, the jolt of adrenaline kicking him awake. “Dude, are they okay? Is anyone hurt?”

“He says they’re fine, but Armor’s lost most of their gear. The trailer’s in fucking pieces.” Alex clicks and Gabe sees what must have been a trailer door, before it met a violent end colliding with the pavement.

“Has anyone told the driver?” Alex shakes his head and Gabe swings his legs over the side of the bunk, sliding down. “We should go back. Did he tell you were they are?”

Alex gives him an exit number, and Gabe goes up front to tell the driver. Behind him, he hears the fuzzy murmur of a question from Ryland and Alex’s low reply.

By the time they reach the crash, it looks like most of the wreckage has been cleared. The highway isn’t closed off, so they make another U-turn off an exit and pull up behind the Academy bus, which is still sitting on the side of the road, signals flashing.

Siska looks pretty freaked, and Gabe starts to head over to him, but Ryland beats him to it, homing in with infallible paternal instincts on the kid who most needs someone to talk to. Alex pulls his hood up against the cold and just stares out across the field of twisted metal that used to be a trailer full of instruments.

Chislett has the remains of a guitar neck in his hand, tuning pegs bent and strings curling out to the sides like some kind of robotic catfish. “Holy shit,” Gabe says, and scans the crowd standing around watching, doing a head count.

William’s staring off into space, hood pulled tight around his face, which is red from the cold. Gabe wonders how long they’ve all been standing out here, watching the techs retrieve pieces of trailer and sorting out the wreckage.

“Are you guys okay?” he asks, coming over to stand next to William on the sidelines. “Where’s Armor?”

“Still asleep,” William answers, without any emotion that Gabe can sense, still staring out at the scene. “Everybody’s fine, they didn’t hit us. We swerved.”

“Holy shit,” Gabe says again, because _holy shit._ There’s a line of amps along the shoulder, where several people are now sitting, huddled into coats and blowing warmth into cupped hands. Someone’s passing around either a joint or a cigarette, Gabe can’t tell from here.

“I think we’re going to go soon,” William says, without looking away. “We’ve been out here for a while. People were filming and everything.”

“Right,” Gabe says. Alex is piecing together what looks like it might have been a bass, fragment by fragment. “This is fucking crazy,” he says, and wishes he hadn’t left his phone on the bus. He’ll need to get Siska to send him pictures.

He spends the next ten or fifteen minutes jogging to keep warm and exclaiming over all the shit people find, most of which is completely trashed. There’s no way Armor’s going to be able to go on in sixteen hours.

“Let’s get back on the bus!” someone calls, rounding people up and sorting them out. Gabe finds Ryland and Alex easily enough, and Nate, too, who’s woken up and come out to see what’s going on. He’s on his way back when he sees that William isn’t moving, staring at his bus with a blank expression.

“Yo, one sec,” he tells the guys, and jogs over. He just stands there for a few seconds, and then bumps William’s elbow with his. “You don’t want to get back on?”

William frowns, but he doesn’t deny it. “It’s stupid,” he says instead.

Gabe snorts. “It’s not stupid, bro. I wouldn’t either. Hey, come with us, we’ll end up in the same place by morning anyway. It’s not that long a drive.”

William’s eyes cut sideways, then back to the bus. “I should just go,” he says, but Gabe knows that tone. It’s the one William always uses when he’s spectacularly unconvinced of whatever it is he’s actually saying.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Gabe says. “Come on. Do you need anything? We’ve got extra pillows and shit, let’s just go.”

Ryland’s hanging in the doorway watching them, so Gabe waves him in, and then spies Chislett and Carden across the pavement. “Yo, we’re taking Will,” he yells, and sees Chislett give him a thumbs-up before he steers William towards his own bus with a hand in the small of his back. “Get on, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

Everyone’s too buzzed to go right to sleep, but after a half-hour of talking in hushed voices in the front lounge and filling in Victoria, who wakes up when they start making noise and the engine rumbles to life, weariness starts to set back in.

William volunteers to sleep on the couch, but Gabe just rolls his eyes. “You weigh what, like, eighty pounds? Get your ass in here, you skinny fuck.”

It’s a tight fit with both of them in the same bunk, but William stays close, nose still cold against Gabe’s collarbone. Gabe splays his fingers out across William’s back, holding him there, and lets exhaustion slowly overwhelm the adrenaline.

William doesn’t tense up when the bus engine starts, but he lays unnaturally still, breathing shallow. Gabe lets him stay that way for a few minutes, then pulls him in, tucking William’s head under his chin.

“Go to sleep,” he mumbles, and feels the brush of William’s lashes across Gabe’s neck when he closes his eyes.

  


*

  
Nobody can talk about anything except the crash all day, and the show feels weird, everyone making sure to say something onstage and filling in the weird hole where Armor’s set usually is. The guys are hanging out with them backstage, taking a short break from trying to get organized enough to go on in Buffalo.

Afterwards, Gabe hangs out with the Academy in their dressing room, talking shit about everything but the accident until it’s obvious that no one really wants to hit the road. Gabe nudges William when the conversation picks up around them, asks, “Hey, are you riding with us tonight?”

William looks wrung-out, the way he always does at the end of a long day, but without the usual sparkle of leftover excitement in his eyes. His tone is dull when he answers. “I should probably go back.”

“Fuck that,” Gabe tells him. “Ride with us. In fact, everyone should ride with us. We’ll party.” He doesn’t wait for a response before calling across the room, “Carden, have your band stow their shit and meet up on our bus. Bring liquor.”

It’s like packing sardines, fitting five extra people on their bus and everyone in the lounge, but they’ve managed it before. There’s a pile of blankets on the floor and a pile of bottles in the corner next to the couch, which increases as the night goes on.

William comes back in from taking a phone call and Gabe throws his arms open wide to greet him. “Holy shit, William Beckett!” he exclaims, wide eyes and shocked expression as William picks his way across the field of bodies and bottles. Alex moves his legs, either to get them out of William’s way or to trip him, one of the two, just as Gabe adds, “Why the fuck won’t you sleep with me?”

William stops moving, half-smile frozen on his face for a second before his expression changes. “Are you talking about that stupid bet?”

“Dare,” Siska puts in from the couch, in the familiar tone he uses when he and William revert back to their high school years. “It was a double-dog _dare,_ you pussy.”

“I heard it was a hundred dollars,” Gabe continues, grinning because William can’t back out in front of a room full of witnesses. “I’m not worth a hundred dollars?”

“It’s up to…what the fuck is it, seven hundred and something now?” Butcher adds. “The techs are in. We passed a hat.”

“Man, tell me I’m getting a cut,” Gabe demands, throwing a bottle cap at Siska. “I should get fifty percent, at least.”

“I’d be the one doing all the work,” William points out. He’s smiling, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. Gabe holds out an arm almost lazily, and William drops down beside him next to the sagging armchair claimed by Victoria and Ryland.

“It’s my dick,” Gabe defends, surrendering what’s left of his beer when William tugs it out of his fingers. “And I brought in the most cash. Wentz says…” He has to pause briefly to remember what Wentz actually said, because he’s pretty fucking plastered at this point. “Wentz says he’ll pay double. Whatever it is. What is it?”

“Seven hundred and fifty,” Butcher reports, having apparently worked it out on a wrinkled napkin from a fast food joint.

“Wait, wait,” Gabe says, holding his hands up. He digs around in his jeans until he finds his wallet, peeling apart bills. “Plus forty…forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty- _eight._ Forty-eight dollars and…shit. Fifty-seven cents.” He holds up the cash triumphantly, grin still on his face.

“You told Pete?” William asks, but the smile’s crept into his eyes now, which means Gabe is forgiven anyway. The whole point of this is to get William to loosen up and laugh it off, so Gabe considers his job nearly done.

“Take it or leave it,” Gabe says, waggling the bills. “It’s either now or I’m off the market.”

They’d done this same thing to Victoria, early on. Ryland called it hazing, but really they just needed to know how she would handle shit like this, and to show her that no matter what the punk kids called her, she was one of them now, and would be treated accordingly.

Victoria had blown smoke in their faces and told them she wouldn’t settle for less than a grand. William finishes the beer, thoughts flicking past a mile a minute in his eyes, and says, “I don’t think this is the best time to be indulging in inter-band fraternization.”

Gabe laughs and then joins in the chorus of boos, but he grins and kisses William messily on the cheek when the conversation moves on to something else.

Siska passes out before the clock hits one; Gabe’s guessing he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the night before. Victoria and Nate have fallen asleep curled up in the chair together, and everyone else is halfway to horizontal by the time Gabe stands up unsteadily and pulls William with him.

“Come on, there’s not enough couches out here, let’s get your skinny ass to bed,” he orders, and there’s a chorus of goodnights from those still awake in the lounge.

William drunk is always more pliable than William sober, gangly limbs and sharp corners melted into liquid warmth. Gabe tugs him into the bunk and lets William drape himself everywhere, the heat of his skin radiating more warmth than the blankets.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging William before he has the chance to go to sleep. “You should have just told them you’d done it, we could have split the money and laughed behind their backs for the next three years.”

William smiles, the sweet, heart-stopping smile that makes the Academy marketable and always reminds Gabe of how fucking young he is. “Not worth it,” he murmurs, eyes already drifting shut. Then, just as Gabe thinks he’s fallen asleep; “Besides, they would have wanted video.”

Gabe laughs, and tilts William’s chin up until their lips can meet, warm and soft. William sighs, snuggling closer, and Gabe falls asleep hearing drum rhythms playing between the beats of William’s heart.

  


*

  
“Rise and shi—whoops,” Alex’s voice says, accompanied by the whoosh of the curtain being pulled back. Gabe wakes up slowly, the way he always does, gradually becoming aware of the sun against his back, the headache pulsing threateningly at his temples, and the warmth beneath his palm, fingers curled around the perfect sharp curve of William’s hipbone.

William stirs slightly, and Gabe’s grip tightens automatically. He hears the whisper of fabric and familiar breathing, and says without opening his eyes, “If you have a video camera and no coffee, Victoria, you’d better watch yourself onstage tonight.”

It’s an empty threat, mostly; if Alex is up, it means there’s coffee, especially since after the festivities last night, they have a bus full of people with hangovers.

She doesn’t answer, but the aroma of coffee fills his nostrils, thick and heavy. “You can have mine if you want,” Ryland’s voice says from nearby. “I was about to get a new cup anyway. Victoria, it’s too early; let the lovers sleep.”

He hears her giggle, then, and pries his eyes open enough to see Alex step into the shot. “Let us continue with our tour of the party bus,” he says, and winks at Gabe as they turn away and move on.

Gabe flops back down onto the pillow, groaning as his hangover makes its presence known, and sees William’s half-smile, faint but genuine; one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. Gabe lets his hand slide around to where he can dig his fingers in and hit nerves, and nearly gets the wind knocked out of him when William’s elbow jerks sharply into his stomach in reaction.

“Time to wake up, Juliet,” he croons, squinting to see what Ryland did with the coffee.

William blinks awake and narrows his eyes, peering up at him. “That doesn’t even make any sense,” he complains. One of his hands has landed on Gabe’s chest, fingers loose and relaxed in the thin material of his shirt. Gabe thinks about kissing him again but doesn’t, partly because he has morning breath but mostly because he’s spotted the coffee.

“If you wake up I’ll share,” he tempts, swirling the dark liquid around in the mug. William wrinkles his nose and stretches, a slow undulation from fingers to toes, and then burrows back down under the blanket.

Gabe laughs and blows at the lock of William’s hair straggling out from beneath the covers. William makes a grumbling noise of complaint from beneath the blanket, but his face pops back out, scrunched up with the crankiness of the newly-woken.

William’s arm wraps around him, sliding warm and close around his waist, and while Gabe is distracted his other hand snakes around and steals the coffee mug. He drains it, the fucker, and smacks his lips in satisfaction over Gabe’s outraged protest.

“Now I have to go get more,” Gabe complains, trying and failing to not smile at the way William’s lips curl up in smug contentment. He knocks his knee into William’s thigh to emphasize the point, struggling up from the twisted tangle of the blanket.

William yawns, sets the mug down, and snuggles back down on the pillow. “Go ahead,” he agrees serenely. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Fucker,” Gabe accuses, but he doesn’t get up. He’d have to jostle William to get out, and it’s easier just to slide his hand under the hem of William’s shirt and let his eyes drift closed.

  


*

  
For reasons of his own, William stays with them the next night, and then again the night after that because they have a day off and stay out late, so it’s really not until Gabe wakes up somewhere amidst the rolling cornfields of the Midwest – one hand hanging off the edge of the bunk questing after missing warmth and frowning because he can’t find it – that he stops and thinks, _oh shit._

He almost calls Pete, because if there’s one thing Pete’s good at, it’s…well, it’s making bad choices involving his love life, but if there are two things Pete’s good at, the second one is definitely throwing money around in a way that accomplishes his goals.

What Gabe really needs, though, is someone who will play best friend for a while, and someone who has insight into the mind and heart of William Beckett. There’s really only one person to call.

“Yo,” says Travis. “I’m watching this thing on sea snakes, you’d love it. It’s fucked up, all these guy snakes get together and gang bang a chick snake. Seriously man, you should see this shit.”

“No shit,” Gabe says in surprise. “What, do they take turns? Fight for sloppy seconds?”

“I dunno, man, there’s a lot of fucking wriggling. I think they just all try to get it in there as much as they can.” Travis sounds deeply contemplative, and Gabe wonders how long the snakes have been going at it. Nature specials love that crazy sex shit.

“Have you played the Garden yet?” he asks. He can’t remember what day it is or where his own tour is, let alone Travis’ schedule.

“Tomorrow. Crazy fucking thing. Hey, how’s my boy?”

“Keeps fucking stealing my shit,” Gabe says, because he’s pretty sure that he’s finally run out of trashy sunglasses, and he has a good idea of where to find them. “I think maybe he’s a klepto.”

“Aw, he’s just pulling your pigtails,” Travis says serenely, and this, this is exactly why Gabe called Travis.

“So hey, if you wanted to do something fucking crazy, like go for a ride in a hot air balloon, what would you do?” He asks it as casually as possible, and hopes that Travis is sticking to his usual policy of never reading anything, even on a screen.

“Hmm.” There’s a thoughtful exhale. “Look it up online or check a phone book. People are all fucking crazy, you can do just about anything.”

“I checked. They all closed in October, it’s out of season or something.” Gabe’s been to more websites than he can count, for every state whose border they’re crossing. Apparently hot air ballooning is a summer sport. “Nothing’s open ‘til March, and I can’t find any place to just buy one of the fucking things. I wouldn’t know how to get it up anyway. Don’t fucking say it, your momma knows I can get it up all the damn time.”

Travis chuckles appreciatively, then says, “Shit man, you’re serious. You want a hot air balloon?”

“It’s kind of a gesture,” Gabe says. “And I can’t wait until March, I need it now. Or soon. You can’t have someone make one, can you? What the fuck are they even made out of? They’re like zeppelins. Although hey, then I could have it decorated and everything, that would be cool. Personalized.”

There’s silence for long enough that Gabe starts worrying the sea snakes are going at it again. “Schleprok?”

“Shit,” Travis says. “You’re finally making a move.”

“What the fuck?” Gabe says, because it’s always creepy when Travis does his stoner psychic oracle thing, and Gabe never fucking sees it coming.

“Man,” Travis says solemnly, “you’d better grow some fucking balls, because he’s not going to get it from a big fucking balloon.”

“You don’t know,” Gabe says. “Fuck that, I’ve got a plan. It’s gonna be epic, bro. Epic, awesome plan.”

Travis laughs at him until Gabe finally gives up and hits ‘end.’

  


*

  
Gabe’s teaching William how to play darts. He’s actually taught William how to play darts at least sixteen times before this, but somehow William always forgets – probably because they usually drink so much that details are hazy at best – and Gabe ends up having to teach him again.

The thing is, Gabe doesn’t even _like_ darts, he just knows that every now and then someone has to force William to be twenty-two for a change, and not thirty-five. The quickest way to accomplish this is alcohol and stupid bar games.

“I hit the red thing,” William announces, frowning slightly as if he can’t remember whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Gabe tosses another dart. “More arc, man, really, yeah. Elbow, it’s all in the fucking elbow.”

William tosses another limp-wristed dart which lands at a point equidistant from both the first dart and the bulls-eye. Previous throw patterns have taught Gabe that he’ll make a complete circuit around the center without ever even coming close to hitting it. “I thought it was all in the wrist,” William says.

He’s frowning again, so Gabe bumps him before he throws the next dart. “You know what’s all in the wrist. This is the elbow, trust me. I need a drink. What are you drinking?”

“Irish coffee,” William says, offering him the mug. Gabe inhales but doesn’t drink, sticking to actual liquor that comes in glasses and not ceramics.

“Yo, stop putting that shit down,” he warns when William takes a sip and sets the mug back on the table. “You’re gonna get roofied.”

William glances sideways through his hair, with a half-smile like he knows a secret that he thought Gabe was already in on. “I’m with you,” he says, tossing another dart which lands completely off the mark and in an all-new quadrant of the board.

“I’m gonna get fucked up,” Gabe says honestly, grinning and signaling for another drink to prove his point. “You’d better have someone else watching your ass.” It’s a great ass, though. Gabe’s been watching it whenever is convenient.

“Pool table’s opening,” Siska announces, surfacing beside them. “Game’s almost over.”

“No shit, awesome.” Gabe digs out a twenty and holds it up. “Put this on the table for us? We’ll be right over.” One of the pleasures of spending a few hours in a shitty bar is watching William fucking sweep the floor with the local pool champions. He goes in looking like a gangly pretty-boy poser, but once money is on the line, he’s a fucking _shark._

“What about the game?” William asks, and then throws and scores a fucking bulls-eye.

They both stare.

“Holy shit,” Gabe says, walking up to confirm what his eyes are telling him, which is that William Beckett has gotten in the one lucky shot of his shitty-bar dart-throwing career. He looks back at William, who is holding his two remaining darts and turning them over in his hand thoughtfully, and shakes his head. “Don’t push it, just let it be. Time for pool.”

William pouts for a split-half-second, which is the fucking most adorable thing ever that Gabe will never admit to, and then shrugs and trades the darts for his mug of coffee-liqueur shit. His center of gravity drops into his hips as they walk over, the way it does onstage, and Gabe can hardly hold in his glee as half the bar covertly watches his progress across the room.

William takes a cue from the wall, twirls it in one hand, and runs his hand over the balls on the table.

One of the locals steps up, money in hand. “Lookin’ for a game?” he asks, and William smiles, that fucking brilliant-as-the-sun smile. Somewhere to his left, Gabe hears Ryland start taking bets.

Gabe lounges against the wall, because it’s comfortable and he knows he looks good like this, and also because it gives him a great angle on the game. William and the local guy set terms, and then William leans over the table, jeans hanging low on his hips and shirt riding up over his waist, and gets two balls in on the break.

Gabe grins lazily and watches the wind change in the betting pool. Then he watches the curve of William’s ass and thinks he needs to hurry it up and find a fucking hot air balloon.

  


*

  
“Mikey, hey,” Gabe says. “Look, I need a hot air balloon.”

There’s a pause, and then Mikey says, “Okay. Where?”

Gabe fucking loves Mikey Way.

  


*

  
Two days before the end of the tour, they end up in a field in Nowheresville, Illinois, and Gabe is totally stoked. It’s even bigger than he imagined. And okay, so he couldn’t get one with a cobra on it, or a big SANTI, but it’s still pretty fucking impressive. There’s a lot of fire, too, which helps.

William looks up at the hot air balloon with significant trepidation.

“It’s a gesture,” Gabe explains, waving an arm to emphasize the point. “You don’t actually, like, have to get in it.”

William tilts his head sideways. “It’s just, I have this thing with heights,” he says.

Gabe snorts. “You do not. Remember the time you climbed up onto the roof of our bus and jumped into a tree?”

William’s eyes skitter sideways. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone about that,” he says.

“This doesn’t count,” Gabe says immediately, and it’s not like he hasn’t kept his word on that, because telling Travis doesn’t count either.

The hot air balloon belches flame with a hiss. William eyes it consideringly. “So,” he says. “A balloon.”

“Yeah, well,” Gabe says, because he’d kind of depended on William somehow intuitively understanding this part. “I did this interview and the guy was totally fishing, which is cool because it was for the gays, so you know, it’s not like I blame them, but he asked me what I’d always wanted to do and he obviously wanted me to say, like, ‘I’d really like to go down on a dude’ and I wasn’t ready to commit to that, so I said I’d go on a hot air balloon ride. A romantic one.”

William is now giving him the same look with which he’d previously been favoring the balloon. “A romantic hot air balloon ride?” he asks, like he hadn’t previously considered that, or maybe just wants to be sure he got the gist.

“Yeah, and obviously I couldn’t offer you anything less.” Gabe slings his arm around William’s shoulders, comfortably cocking one hip. “I mean, saying that and then offering a blowjob would just be tacky.”

William eyes the balloon a bit more. It hisses and gusts and does other hot air balloon things. “Is this about the bet?” he asks finally.

Gabe clasps a hand to his heart. “William, Will, I’m wounded. This is a gesture, man, a fucking giant balloon-sized gesture from my _heart._ ”

“Hmm,” William says. He’s still playing it close to the vest, but there’s a smile at the corners of his mouth, which is always a good sign. “So this is basically you asking if I want to fuck?”

“Make love,” Gabe says immediately, crooning it the way he always does. “Sweet, sweet love. Ass babies. I want to have cats with you.”

The smile’s out in earnest now, sparkling in William’s eyes even though he keeps looking at the balloon and not meeting Gabe’s eyes. He taps his finger against his lips a few times, and then says, “I accept your gesture.”

Gabe tugs him closer with the arm around his neck, grinning. “So what, you want to go up?” he asks.

William takes a few steps forward and pokes at the basket, which creaks a little and causes the ropes to sway. “Fuck no,” he announces seriously, stepping back again, and incidentally right into Gabe’s chest.

Gabe wraps both arms around his waist and congratulates himself on the fact that anyone seeing this, even if they were recognized, would not think it anything out of the ordinary. Obviously gaying it up before actually converting is totally the way to go. “It’s cool,” he says. “Want to go fuck like bunnies instead?”

He can totally feel William’s attempt at an eyeroll, completely ruined by the smile still on his face. “So much for the romance. I’m not playing into your weird furry fetish.”

Gabe laughs and lets his arms slide loose so he can catch William’s wrist and pull him back towards the rental car. “Baby, we can do whatever you want.”


End file.
